З життя
Невеликий сільський куточок.
В українській невеликій, майже хуторі, розкинулось селище на пагорбі серед моху та журавлини. У селі всього чотири двори, дахи яких від дощів стали сірими, криті дранкою, притулилися під могутніми дубами, через що й назвали село Дубки.
У Дубках жило лише одинадцять душ. Люди тут жили завдяки господарству, полюванню та рибальству. Найзаможнішим в селі був Іван Трохимович. Він був скупий і роботящий чоловік. Йому вже під шістдесят, але сили ще в ньому є. Цієї осені назбирав п’ятнадцять пудів журавлини, звісно, не сам, а з Петром. Це його син. Петро — молодший, йому вісімнадцять. Двоє старших синів живуть у Києві і вже три роки не були вдома. Петро поки що в місто не тягнеться, але й до сільської праці не дуже пристосований. Одного ранку, прийшовши додому, Петро сказав батькові: — Засилайте, батьку, сватів в Озірці. — Куди саме? — похмуро запитав Іван. — До Дем’янових, до їхньої Павлинки. І знаючи сувору вдачу батька, додав: — Якщо не пошлете сватів, піду з нею в місто до братів. Не знайшлось Івану відради від молодшого. Він не дурень, легковажний. І господар з нього ніякий, але ж останній він. Піде в місто, а залишуся я на самоті з господарством. Марфа, стара його, зовсім слабка стала, хвороба її звела. Василь Дем’янов сам собі п’яниця та ледар, а дівчина у нього красуня. Бачив її Іван влітку на косовицях. Висока, статна, руса коса до пояса. Величезні сірі очі. І що ж вона знайшла в Петрі? Так!
Дівчина така будь-яку хату прикрасить, і Марфі давно помічниця потрібна. Довго чи коротко, але на Покрови справили весілля. А ще через місяць у Дубки приїхав представник і забрав Петра в армію. На проводах Павлинка плакала за Петром, як за покійником. З від’їздом Петра життя Павлини в Дубках стало нестерпним. Свекор перестав її пускати. Спочатку, ніби жартуючи, то ущипне, коли йде повз, то спробує обійняти, коли вона доїть корову. А як мила підлогу у світлиці, нахабно заліз їй під спідницю. Вона нічого не могла відповісти, їй було соромно перед свекрухою, яка лежала за ширмою. Якось, коли набирала сіна на сіннику, Іван підкрався до Павлини ззаду, повалив її в сіно і ліз цілувати, дихнувши на неї часниковим перегаром. Колючий, мохнатий бородатий закрив усе її обличчя, не даючи крикнути. Павлина стала задихатися, а свекор копирсався під її спідницею. Як їй вдалося вибратися з-під важкого Івана, вона не пам’ятає, але вибравшись, схопила вила, націлила їх у груди свекра і важко дихаючи прошипіла: «Заколю! Кобель старий! Прости мене, Господи!»
З цього дня свекор перестав чіплятися до Павли, але став обзивати її за кожну дрібницю: то не так вона робить, то це не так. Врешті-решт життя у дівчини стало нестерпним. І плакала Павлина і жалкувала. Ходила в Озірці до матері, скаржилася їй. А що мати? Пожаліла, поплакала і відправила назад. «Терпи», сказала. «Прийде Петро, все налагодиться». Перед поверненням у Дубки Павлина зайшла в сільский магазин, щоб купити сірники і приправи для кухні. Взяла лавровий лист, червоний перець, порошок гірчиці — свекор наказував. З малою охотою пішла в Дубки. Павлина йшла, скриплячи валянками по снігу, і роздумувала над своєю нелегкою долею. Вже третій місяць, як поїхав Петро.
Подобався їй цей веселий, бешкетний хлопець. Хоча в селі були й красивіші хлопці. Але грубі всі, безсоромні, а цей ніжний, грубого слова від нього не почути. Полюбити ж як слід не встигли. А тепер свекор норовить замість сина потішитися. «Не буде цього! Треба відвадити старого зіграча! Але як?» Поглиблена в свої думки, Павла навіть не помітила, як дійшла до Дубків. Свекор зустрів її з бурчанням, що довго ходила і не те купила. Попивши молока, Павла пішла в свою кімнату і замкнула двері на засув. Наступного дня топили баню. Баня стояла далеко від дому, біля маленького ставка. Павлина натягала води, розтопила піч. Потім, коли поралася по господарству, поклала в кишеню фартуха пакетик з червоним перцем. Вирішивши, що цього мало, додала гірчиці. Через деякий час, коли зібралася приби|ратися в бані, натерла полок перцем і гірчицею, щедро насипала адської суміші в тазик з вологим віником. Від запаху перцю і гірчиці в неї защипало в носі. Павла чмихнула і вискочила з лазні. Вискочила вона якраз вчасно, на зустріч уже йшов свекор з вузликом білизни під пахвою. — «Навіщо баню студиш, шмаркачко», — накинувся він на неї. Переступивши з тропи у снег, Павла мовчки пропустила свекра і побігла в хату. Зачинивши за собою двері, вона притулилася до стіни, серце її було готове вискочити з грудей. «Що буде?» Страшно Павлинці і радісно на душі, що вирішила покарати негідника. «Зараз тобі, старий, буде спекотно». «Ах ти, шмаркачка» — подумав Іван. Напевно, погано провітрила баню? Або головешка в каменці ще тліє». Поковирявши з пічкою кочергою і заливши водою тліючий вугіль, Іван виліз на полок і із задоволенням розтягнувся на ньому. Полок був гарячий і трохи обпалював шкіру. Іван пом’явся спиною і задом, звикаючи до спеки, але спека поступово перейшла в печіння.
Нічого не розуміючи, Іван сів на полок. Пробіг рукою по дошках полока. Нічого не знайшов. Інстинктивно почухав, цією ж рукою, своє «господарство» і тут же майже звалився на підлогу. Відчуття було таке, ніби передом вкусила оса, а ззаду накрили кропивою. Вревнувши від болю, як поранений ведмідь, Іван вскочив, як мати народила, з лазні, і плюхнувся в сніг. Печіння трохи вщухло, але сидіти на снігу стало холодно, і він побіг назад у баню. На підлозі, подавляючи ледве стримуваний сміх, качалася Павла. З кута свого вилізла Марфа і здивовано втупилася на Павлу, від якої зі дня від’їзду Петра, сміху не чула.
Марфа давно помічала, що її чоловік чіпляється до невістки, але захистити її сил не було, а тепер Павлина, взяла так і розказала свекрусі, як покарала старого. Марфа спершу насупила молочні брови — стало жаль чоловіка, але потім зі сміхом і сказала: «Так тому кабелю і потрібно». Увійшовши знову в баню, Іван став міркувати, що ж з ним сталося. Може на полок що потрапило? Зачерпнувши ковш гарячої води, він рясно змив полок і заліз на нього. Наче нічого не обпалювало. Піддавши в каменку, Іван взяв з шайки віник і став ганяти ним по спині і зав’язках, але тут у нього защипало в носі і в очах, тіло знову запалало вогнем, а в залі свербило так, ніби він сів у мурашник.
Зкотившись з полока на підлогу, він повзком доповз до дверей і майже вибивши її, викотився з лазні в знайомий сніг. Додому Іван прийшов мовчки, коли вже стемніло, вечері не захотів, одразу пішов спати, але заснути йому не вдалося. Все тіло палало. Він крутився на скрипучій ліжку, як в’юн на сковороді і едва не вив від болю, ледве стримуючи стони. Коли стало нестерпним, він розчинив вікно, зняв кальсони і виставив палаючу задню на мороз. Стало легше, але Івану здавалося, що від його сяїни можна прикурити цигарку. Слава богу ніч, якби хто побачив цю картину: Іван — відлюдний гордій, що сидить на підвіконні з голою задницею, як ворон на сучку, важко сказати, що б про нього подумали.
По-своєму оцінив що відбувається вірний пес Васка, чиї будка стояла під цим вікном. Пес встав на задні лапи і лизнув хазяїна за…. Від несподіваної ласки в Івана в грудях похолоділо і він, розм’якнувши, грюкнувся на підлогу. Від гуркоту встала Марфа, вийшла з своєї кімнати Павла зі свічкою в руці. Від малюнка, побаченого ними, хочеться і плакати, і сміятися. З голою ягодицею, без свідомості, на підлозі лежав Іван, а в відкрите вікно зазирала руда морда Васки. З цього дня Іван перестав чіплятися до Павли, так нічого і не сказавши їй. А незабаром Павла отримала від Петра листа і поїхала до нього, де він служив.
Хоча бабуся Дарина в своєму оповіданні і назвала невістку Павлиною, а я думаю, що це вона про себе. На неї схожий, хоча їй і за вісімдесят, а в очах досі пробігають іскри нечестиві…
The Manor Smelled of French Perfume and Lovelessness. Little Lizzie Knew Only One Pair of Warm Hands—Those of the Housemaid Nora. But One Day Money Went Missing from the Safe, and Those Hands Disappeared Forever. Twenty Years Passed. Now Lizzie Stands at a Doorstep Herself—With a Child in Her Arms and a Truth That Burns in Her Throat… *** The Scent of Dough Was the Scent of Home. Not the grand house with marble staircase and three-tiered chandelier where Lizzie spent her childhood—but a real home. The one she’d dreamed up while sitting on a kitchen stool, watching Nora’s work-worn, red hands knead the elastic dough. “Why does dough breathe?” five-year-old Lizzie would ask. “Because it lives,” Nora would reply, not pausing in her work. “See how it bubbles? It’s happy it’s going into the oven. Odd, isn’t it? Being happy for the fire.” Lizzie hadn’t understood then. But now—she understood. She stood by the edge of a broken country road, clutching four-year-old Michael to her chest. The bus had gone, leaving them in the pale February twilight, surrounded by that particular village silence where you can hear snow crunching under a stranger’s boots three houses away. Michael didn’t cry—he’d almost forgotten how in the last six months. He only watched with solemn, grown-up eyes, and each time Lizzie shivered: Michael’s father’s eyes. His chin. His silence—always hiding something. Don’t think about him. Not now. “Mum, I’m cold.” “I know, darling. We’ll find it soon.” She didn’t know the address. Didn’t even know if Nora was still alive—twenty years had passed, a whole lifetime. All she remembered: “Pinewood Village, Sussex.” And the scent of that dough. And the warmth of those hands—the only ones in the big house that stroked her head just because, for no special reason. The lane led past sagging fences. Here and there, yellow lights glowed in windows—dim, but alive. Lizzie stopped at the last cottage—because her legs couldn’t go any farther, and Michael had become much too heavy. The gate creaked. Two snow-covered steps to the porch. The door—old, warped, paint peeling off. She knocked. Silence. Then—shuffling footsteps. The sound of a bolt sliding back. A voice—cracked, aged, but achingly familiar, making Lizzie’s breath catch: “Who’s out there in the dark at this hour?” The door opened. A tiny old woman in a knitted cardigan over her nightgown stood on the threshold. Her face—like a baked apple, wrinkled a thousand ways. But her eyes—the same. Faded, blue, still alive. “Nora…” The old woman froze. Then slowly raised the same hardworking, knotty hand to Lizzie’s cheek. “Oh, my word… Lizzie?” Lizzie’s knees buckled. She stood, clutching her son, unable to utter a word—only tears running hot down her cold cheeks. Nora asked nothing. Not “where from?”, not “why?”, not “what happened?”. She simply took her old coat, hanging on a nail by the door, and wrapped it around Lizzie’s shoulders. Then gently lifted Michael—who didn’t even flinch, just watched with those dark eyes—and held him close. “There now, you’re home, my little sparrow,” she said. “Come in. Come in, love.”
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Is the Orchid Really to Blame? “Polly, take this orchid or I’m throwing it out,” Kate said, carelessly picking up the clear pot from the windowsill and handing it to me. “Thanks, Kate! But what’s wrong with this orchid?” I was surprised. After all, three more gorgeous, well-tended orchids stood in her window. “It was a wedding gift for my son. And you know how that all ended,” Kate sighed heavily. “I know your Denis got divorced before their first anniversary. I won’t ask why—I bet it was a serious reason. Denis adored Tanya,” I said gently, not wanting to reopen a fresh wound. “I’ll tell you the full story one day, Polly. For now, it’s just too much,” Kate said, getting a bit teary. I brought the “banished” and “rejected” orchid home. My husband looked sympathetically at the wilting plant. “Why do you want that poor thing? There’s no life in it. Even I can see that. Don’t waste your time,” he insisted. “I want to revive it. Give it some love and care. You’ll see—soon you’ll be impressed by this orchid!” I replied, determined to breathe life back into the drooping flower. He winked playfully: “Who ever turns down a bit of love?” A week later, Kate called: “Polly, can I come over? I can’t keep this bottled up anymore. I want to tell you everything about Denis’s failed marriage.” “Of course, Kate. I’m here whenever you need me,” I assured her—remembering how she’d supported me through two rocky marriages of my own… After all, we’d been friends for years. Kate arrived within the hour, settled in the kitchen, and for hours, over a glass of dry wine, a mug of coffee, and some dark chocolate, she shared the whole, tangled tale. “I never imagined my ex-daughter-in-law was capable of such things. Denis and Tanya were together for seven years. Denis left Annie—who I adored, by the way—for Tanya, who was just stunning. He was absolutely besotted, following her around like a lovesick puppy. Tanya looked like a model—men couldn’t help but stare. But for all those years, they never had a child. I figured Denis wanted everything by the book—get married, then have kids. Denis is private, and we never pried. Finally, Denis told us: ‘Mum, Dad, I’m marrying Tanya. We’ve booked the registry office. I’m throwing a huge wedding—no expense spared.’ He was thirty. We were thrilled that he’d finally settle down. But, Polly, the wedding date had to be postponed twice—once Denis got sick, then I was held up at work. It felt odd, but Denis was glowing with happiness—I didn’t say anything. Denis even wanted to have a church wedding with Father Christopher, but the priest was called back to his home parish. Nothing was going smoothly. It seemed like the world was warning us… The wedding was spectacular, noisy, extravagant. Here—look at the wedding photo. You see that orchid? Glorious, in full bloom. Its leaves stood tall like soldiers. And now? Just limp rags remain of it. …Denis and Tanya planned their honeymoon in Paris, but right at the airport, Tanya was barred from leaving the country—something about an unpaid fine. Denis swatted away these troubles like flies. …But then Denis got seriously ill. Ended up in hospital, things looked grim. Doctors were at a loss. Tanya visited for a week, then bluntly told him: ‘Sorry, but I can’t handle being married to an invalid. I’m filing for divorce.’ Polly, imagine my son—bedridden—hearing that. But he only said: ‘I understand, Tanya. I won’t fight you.’ So they divorced. But Denis got better—thanks to a wonderful doctor named Peter. And Peter had a lovely 20-year-old daughter, Mary. At first, Denis turned up his nose: ‘She’s just a slip of a girl—not even pretty.’ ‘Give her a chance, son. Looks aren’t everything. You’ve already had a model for a wife…Better to be happy drinking water together than sipping honey in sorrow.’ …Time passed. Mary totally fell for Denis—called all the time, trailed after him everywhere. So we tried nudging them together—day at the park, barbecue, campfire. Denis looked miserable, barely noticing Mary’s devotion. I told my husband: ‘It’s hopeless. Denis is still obsessed with Tanya. She’s a thorn in his heart.’ …Three or four months later—ding dong! It’s Denis, holding that infamous orchid. ‘Here you go, Mum—remnants of past happiness. Do as you like with it—I’m done with it.’ I took it reluctantly and basically ignored it, blaming the poor flower for my son’s heartbreak. One day, a neighbour says: ‘Kate, I saw Denis with that petite girl. His ex-wife was more glamorous, for sure.’ But then Denis announced, hand-in-hand with Mary: ‘Meet my wife—Mary. We got married quietly at the registry office, then Father Christopher married us in church. Mum, Dad, no big fuss this time! It’s forever now.’ I pulled him aside: ‘Denis, are you sure you love her? Is this for revenge against Tanya?’ ‘No, Mum. I’m over it. That woman is my past—I’m done even saying her name. Mary and I are right for each other.’ And that’s the tale, Polly. Kate finished her story, right down to the last detail. …Two years passed. Life swept us along. But the orchid? It flourished again—blooming beautifully after care and love. Flowers know how to say thank you. I met Kate at the hospital maternity ward: ‘Hi, mate! What brings you here?’ ‘Mary just had twins—being discharged today!’ Kate beamed. Denis and his dad hovered nearby, Denis clutching red roses. Out came exhausted but glowing Mary, with two sleeping bundles in tow. Then came my daughter, holding my own new granddaughter. Meanwhile, Tanya was begging Denis for forgiveness and a fresh start. …But glue a broken teacup, and no one really wants to drink from it…
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Three O’Clock in the Morning and a Phone Call: How Saving a Stray German Shepherd with Mum’s Help Changed My Heart Forever
Mary Ellen wakes at three in the morning to the insistent buzzing of her old mobile phone on her bedside...
Raw Nerves: In This Family, Everyone Lived Their Own Separate Lives. Dad, Alexander, Had Not Just a Wife but a String of Lovers. Mum, Jenny, Turned a Blind Eye, but She Had Her Own Secret Romance with a Married Colleague. Their Two Sons Were Left to Fend for Themselves. Nobody Really Raised Them, So They Wasted Days Wandering Aimlessly. Jenny Claimed the School Was Responsible for Their Upbringing. On Sundays, the Family Would Gather in Silence Round the Kitchen Table, Wolf Down Lunch, and Disperse to Their Separate Interests. They Might Have Continued in Their Broken, Flawed but Comfortably Familiar Existence—Until Irreversible Tragedy Struck. When the Younger Son, Daniel, Was Twelve, Alexander First Took Him to the Garage as His Little Helper. While Daniel Curiously Inspected the Tools, Alexander Stepped Next Door to Chat with Fellow Car Enthusiasts. Suddenly, Black Smoke and Flames Billowed from Alexander’s Garage. (Later, It Would Emerge that Daniel Had Accidentally Knocked a Lit Blowtorch onto a Can of Petrol.) Nobody Understood What Had Happened. People Were Frozen, Panicking, as Fire Raged. Water Was Thrown Over Alexander, and He Bolted into the Inferno. In Moments, He Emerged, Carrying His Motionless Son, Daniel’s Body a Mass of Burns—Only His Face, Shielded by His Hands, Remained Unscathed; His Clothes Were Completely Burned Away. Someone Had Already Called the Fire Brigade and Ambulance. Daniel Was Rushed to Hospital—He Was Alive! He Was Taken Straight to Surgery. After Agonising Hours, the Surgeon Came Out to Daniel’s Parents and Said, “We’re Doing All We Can. Your Son Is in a Coma. His Chances Are One in a Million. Science Is Powerless. Only Extraordinary Willpower—and a Miracle—Can Save Him Now.” Desperate, Alexander and Jenny Raced to the Nearest Church—in a Torrential Downpour. Drenched and Sobbing, They Entered the Sanctuary for the First Time in Their Lives, Begging the Priest, Father George, for Help. “…How grave are your sins?” Father George asked. Alexander, sheepish, replied, “Not murderers, if that’s what you mean…” “But where is your love? Dead underfoot,” the priest reproached. “There’s more space between you than a fallen oak log. Pray to Saint Nicholas for your son’s health—pray fiercely! But remember, it’s God’s will…” At the icon, Alexander and Jenny knelt, weeping and praying passionately—swearing to cut all affairs, vowing to change their lives. The next morning, the phone rang. The doctor reported Daniel was out of his coma. Alexander and Jenny never left his bedside. Daniel whispered to his parents, “Mum, Dad, promise me you’ll stay together,” and, “When I have children, they’ll have your names…” His parents thought he was delirious—after all, he couldn’t even move his finger. But Daniel began to recover. The family’s energy and savings—and even their summer cottage—went into his treatment. The garage and car had burned to ashes, but the main thing was: Daniel was alive. The grandparents pitched in to help, and the family came together through the crisis. A year on, Daniel was in a rehabilitation centre, able to walk and look after himself. He befriended Mary, a girl his own age who’d also been burned in a fire—her face badly scarred after multiple operations, too shy to look in a mirror. Daniel was drawn to her kindness, wisdom, and vulnerability. The two became inseparably close, bonding over pain, recovery, and endless conversation. Time passed… Daniel and Mary celebrated a modest wedding. They had two beautiful children: daughter Alexandra, then three years later, son John. At last, the family could breathe easy. But the ordeal had left Alexander and Jenny drained. They decided to part ways, both craving peace and relief from each other. Jenny moved to stay with her sister in the suburbs, visiting Father George before leaving—he, now a confidant, urged her not to go for long; “A husband and wife are one.” Alexander remained alone in the empty flat, sons with families of their own. Visiting grandchildren was done separately, timings carefully coordinated to avoid crossing paths. And so, after all they’d suffered, every member of the family finally found their own, peculiar peace…
CUT TO THE QUICK… In this family, everyone lived their own separate lives. Jack, the father, in addition to his...